


Burn Out

by trebleclefable



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Head Injury, Short drabble that I just want out of my WIP folder, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trebleclefable/pseuds/trebleclefable
Summary: Bastila Shan and her Jedi strike team face Revan and miraculously survive the encounter. Now they just need to get the body back to the Jedi Council.
Kudos: 12





	Burn Out

“You can’t be _serious_. We came to kill the bitch, not save her!” 

“Shut up, Mila. Our objective is to capture Revan, not kill her. And remember, Bastila is your superior officer.”

“Capture Revan _if possible_ , kill if necessary.”

“And Bastila’s still practically a Padawan anyway! She should be a Padawan, and her Battle Meditation is the only reason she’s not! She shouldn’t be making these kinds of calls.”

" _Quiet_ , Mila!”

You ignore the nigh on mutinous bickering of your three teammates behind you, choosing instead to focus on your target. The ship’s cold floor is hard and uncomfortable under your knees, but you resist the urge to move; your hands remain frozen in place, held out in front of you inches above a half-dead Sith. You beckon and shape the Force to your will, directing it to flow through broken bones, torn tissue, and crushed organs, methodically stitching them back together. The stitches - made of the Force and nothing else - are tenuous, and hardly a replacement for real medical assistance, but hopefully they’ll do for now. Exhaustion settles on your shoulders, and you can feel - tangibly, _physically_ feel, in the squirming in your guts and veins - some of your life Force leaving you. It anchors onto the crumpled body under your hands, and you sigh in relief when you sense it working. She isn’t dead, not yet.

_I should be though, shouldn’t I?_

The deed done, you stand wearily and face your team. You already know Mila’s opinion on your decision; she keeps shooting you glances of open disbelief and possibly disgust. Next to her, Vasil seethes at Mila’s open disrespect, but seems unwilling to meet your gaze. Finally, Baran regards you quietly, waiting for your orders. 

It takes you a moment to remember that you should be leading. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat, “Baran and Vasil, you two will carry her body back to the escape pod. Mila, you and I will guard them. Let’s move out, quickly.” Authority sounds hesitant on your tongue, and you hope your bravado is enough to hide it.

Despite their misgivings, your Jedi Knights do as you say. The four of you - is that all you have left? Just four? - appropriate some Sith corpses of their outer robes, and together snake through the ship’s winding halls, taking advantage of the chaos as the crew panics and the ship announces its imminent demise with frightening shrieks and groans. How bizarre this situation is, you realize, as you’re helping Baran slip Revan’s body into the Republic pod. Vasil is already inside, deftly catching the Sith’s large body before it can hit the floor. 

“All clear,” Mila asserts, returning from around a corner, and you allow Baran to help you and then Mila into the pod. You give the order to eject, and you feel the pod lurch as it detaches from the downing ship. 

“Mission success,” Baran breathes, his words slow in disbelief, and you realize that, yes, it is a success - you have succeeded. Revan’s limp body lays on the pod’s narrow table. You've made a great sacrifice, but you have succeeded.

* * *

The consequences of that sacrifice become clear to you even before you return to the Council. The presence of Revan’s voice in your head promises that the worst is yet to come.

“Set a course for Dantooine,” you order, and are secretly gratified when Vasil obeys without question or too much hesitation. You should be taking them to Coruscant, but… Well, Malak expects you to be going that way, so Dantooine is safer. Safer for Revan, too. 

_Home,_ Revan agrees, projecting the impression of gesturing aimlessly with her hands. _It’s been a long time._ Her eyes - or, your impression of them - have a clouded, faraway look, unseeing, delirious from her head injury. Whether this is really Revan or some leftover fragment of her consciousness speaking to you, or some figment of the Force present only to you, you don’t know. Revan doesn’t know, either. From the hazy, disjointed feel of it, Revan can’t perceive or understand much of anything aside from your immediate thoughts.

Hopefully, the Council on Dantooine will be skilled enough to put her back together. Hopefully they’ll be willing to.

_I’ll fix this, sweatheart, I’ll fix this,_ Revan coaxes, her sweet tone raising the hair on your arms and the alarms in your mind. _Haven’t I always? Alek, you’re my oldest and dearest friend and I love you immensely -_

You don’t know what any of that means or who Alek is. You cross your arms, hiding the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and stare intently at the cockpit displays and maps, as if you were actually paying attention to the readings rather than listening to the addled Sith Lord in your head. Even with her conscious so shattered, you can faintly sense hints of Revan’s cutthroat-sharp intelligence under the surface. It frightens you, actually; a woman so composed and collected, reduced to such a state. It frightens you that Revan is in your head at all.

_Why are we afraid? There is no room for fear in your heart. The conviction you have will choke it out,_ Revan hums, and the words might have actually been comforting had they been true. As it is, conviction only ever slips through your fingers, so you know these words are meant for someone else. 

You spare her comatose body an uneasy glance, and hesitantly perch yourself on the nearby stool. Revan is… different than you imagined, though you aren’t sure what you expected in the first place. As you once more take inventory of her injuries, you note that she is not quite as tall as you thought, that her bulky robes and armor hide a dark bronze figure with wide shoulders and hips, and somewhat heavy with muscle and fat all around.

“Huh. She’s kinda chubby,” Baran notes, his head so close above your shoulder that you nearly jump out of your skin. “No wonder she was so hard to carry.”

You stick your nose in the air, feeling oddly hurt and insulted on Revan’s behalf. “There ought to be no room for such pettiness in a Jedi,” you scold harshly. “It’s unbecoming.”

“ _She’s_ unbecoming,” Mila snickers, and you wonder at how these overgrown children even became Jedi in the first place. Besides, you don’t think Revan is exactly difficult to look at, either, though as a Jedi you banish such frivolous thoughts.

From the pilot’s chair, Vasil gives an amused snort. “Keep insulting her and she’ll wake up and kill us all. Besides,” he adds, more reverently, “Revan was a great Jedi, and the entire reason the Republic survived long enough for her to turn against it. Sith or not, she deserves respect.”

“Does she, though?” Mila leers, and you briefly feel the urge to smack her sneer off her face.

You clear your throat. “Yes, she does. The only reason the four of us walked away from that confrontation was because Malak intervened. I highly doubt we would have all survived otherwise. You would do well to remember that.” 

You turn your gaze to Revan again, watching for the faintest signs of life. The only reason you know she’s alive is because you can feel it through the Force, and, of course, hear her in your mind. According to the medical panel, her pulse and breathing both are practically undetectable, and her brain activity erratic at best.

Truthfully, you aren’t certain that even the best Jedi healers can help her now.

_Get up_.

You flinch, fingers flying to the edges of your stool to steady yourself. _Get up!_ Revan orders, her voice sharp and authority as natural on her lips as it was foreign on yours. _Get up! Stand up!_

Instinctively, you stand, your legs shaking under you. Mila and Baran look at you quizzically, and you must be making quite the face, as they leave you and quietly skulk back to their places at the other end of the pod.

Revan growls in frustration. Your blood crawls cold in your veins. _You need to get up! Stand up. You won’t die here. You **cannot** die here. Get up! Get up! Get up! _

After a moment, it occurs to you that Revan isn’t talking to you; she’s talking to herself. Or, rather, _to her own body._ Does she know that she isn't quite inside of it?

Nevertheless, on the table, Revan remains motionless. A wordless, strangled exclamation of frustration and desperation bounces haphazardly around your skull. 

_Get up!_ Revan commands of herself, and there is actual pain squirming in your gut as you listen to those demands slowly deteriorate into begging. _Get up, you have to. You have no choice. Malak is waiting for you. Meetra is waiting for you. Get up. You have no choice. You can’t die here. There’s still so much work to be done. Get up._

“Bastila? Is something wrong?” Vasil twists from his seat at the dashboard, concern etched in the brow lines of his face.

You smile unconvincingly, aware that the tingling sensation in your skin means the blood has drained from your face. You must be sheet-white. “No, thank you. Just nervous about speaking to the Council.” Vasil nods and turns back to the dash display, though he clearly doesn’t believe you. Even Mila and Baran know better than to comment. You sit back down.

How are you meant to carry out your missions like this, with Revan so loud and visceral in your skull? Oh, this is bad. This is very, very bad. 

_I’m well aware how bad it is_ , Revan groans. You aren’t sure if she really _is_ aware or lost in her own memories, but you don’t contest it.

With trembling hands, you carefully pull Revan’s helmet off, easing her head onto the table surface. Blood covers your palms and fingers, streaming freely from some wound hidden by Revan’s black hair, and you return your attention to healing. The Force slithers through your body, through the grooves of your fingerprints, and you visualize as best you can how you want to mend the various wounds. Initially, in your head Revan sighs and whispers as you work, her words forlorn and unintelligible - all you understand is _burn and burn out_ \- but then goes silent. 

Then, as your fingers drift above her closed eyes - 

_Let me die in peace. I’m exhausted. I’m so exhausted._

You straighten your back, exhale slowly through your nose, and attempt to reply in your mind directly. What about getting up, Revan?

_I need to get up,_ she suddenly agrees, though she sounds almost like she's trying to convince herself. _I need to get up. I have so, so much more to do. This was supposed to be only the beginning._

It occurs to you that you do not at all want Revan to wake, at least not right now. She needs to remain unconscious long enough to get to Dantooine if this mission is to be successful.

Thankfully - or not - Revan… deflates, her figure in your mind drooping and languid. Did you do that to her? _I’m so tired. I’ve wanted to die for such a long time now, but my ambitions kept me going. I needed to save the Republic - I still need to. But I can’t anymore; I’ve all but burned out. Malak can finish my work. Let me rest, Padawan._

Your hands falter, the Force briefly slipping out of your grasp. Beads of sweat drip onto the table, barely missing Revan’s bloodless skin.

Jedi. Jedi Knight. Not a Padawan. The Jedi value life, and don’t just abandon people to die, Sith or not.

_Sweet girl. Naive girl. The Jedi Knights all die. The Council will swallow you whole and still return for scraps. Your life is nothing to them. They will throw you to the kath hounds and put your remains on trial._

The journey to Dantooine is a long one.


End file.
